Patience
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "The hallway is dark in comparison with the room inside, entirely abandoned as far as Freed can see; everyone else is inside, dancing, laughing, drinking, amusing themselves as their tastes lead them. Freed would be, too, if he hadn't already spoiled his own evening by misstepping." Freed stresses himself. Laxus inadvertently offers comfort. Set during the party after the GMG.


It's much quieter in the hallway outside the main ballroom. Freed had expected at least some of the light and the music and the laughter to follow him past the entrance, but as soon as he rounds the corner it all fades behind him, as if he's closed a door on it to leave the party on one side and himself on the other.

It suits his mood better anyway. The hallway is dark in comparison with the room inside, entirely abandoned as far as Freed can see; everyone else is inside, dancing, laughing, drinking, amusing themselves as their tastes lead them. Freed would be, too, if he hadn't already spoiled his own evening by misstepping.

"I should have known." He's speaking softly, to himself rather than to an audience. The pull at the tie holding his hair back is harder than it needs to be, but the painful tug at his hair is satisfying in a way, gives some vent to the self-directed frustration burning in his veins. Set free of its constraints his hair falls heavy across his shoulders, tangling as if on command before he so much as moves. That's better, too; for once Freed isn't in the mood to be under control.

_I should have known_. It's one thing to have Laxus in private, one thing to see the other man's gaze go soft and warm when there's no one there to see but Freed himself. It was stupid to think he'd accept Freed's offer, idiotic to think he might not mind hinting at their relationship in front of a room full of strangers and friends alike. Laxus is _Laxus_, after all, and Freed is just Freed, and if he can get away with openly doting on the other man that doesn't mean Laxus wants to _admit_ to their relationship.

If that's even what they have, Freed's mind suggests. He knows he's being melodramatic, knows he's slipping into the self-pitying depression he sometimes hits after a glass or two of wine, but alone in the dark he has no reason to pull himself out of it, no one to perform for. It's easier to slide back against the column behind him, let the smooth stone take his weight so he can tip his head back, shut his eyes and let the self-doubt swamp him.

Maybe it's not a relationship after all. The thoughts are vicious, they cut and catch in his mind with all the strength of the unstated suspicions he's harbored for weeks. Maybe it's just a fling, maybe it's just Laxus having fun. Worse, maybe it's Laxus taking _pity_ on him, maybe all of this is the blond's way of being gentle, of letting Freed have what he wants so badly for a little while before he retracts it forever.

He wishes he didn't feel so panicked at the idea of losing what little he has, even if pity _is_ all it is. At least he has Laxus sometimes, occasionally, maybe not in public and maybe not for long but for _now_, for a _moment_. He'll take what he can get, after all. If only he had _thought_, had realized what _must_ be going on before he went and _asked_. Then maybe he could keep this a little longer, maybe Laxus wouldn't have cut him off as he's surely going to do after tonight, maybe -

"Freed."

Freed's head is coming up, his spine snapping to attention before his conscious mind has put a name to that voice. He doesn't have to think, anymore, to react to Laxus, to adopt the odd desperate pride he always has around the other man.

Laxus is standing just past the doorway of the ballroom, illuminated by the faint white glow of the moon through the glass windows. His clothes fade into monochrome in the dim light, but Freed doesn't have to see to know that his shirt is the dark purple he favors lately, that it's falling with the fine drape of silk, that the white coat makes his shoulders look broader, stronger even than they usually do.

He looks anyway. He can't help it, it's part of his trained habits, and besides it's easier to look at Laxus's clothes than at the other man's face. He doesn't want to see the rejection, the pity that he knows, now, must be in the blond's expression.

He doesn't realize he hasn't answered until Laxus steps in closer. "Hey." There's a touch at his hair, rough and pressing hard enough that Laxus's fingers touch Freed's jaw before the other can think to pull away or decide if he wants to. "Why'd you take your hair down?"

"What?" Words are secondary; most important in Freed's head is the heat of the fingers almost-against his skin, the angle of Laxus's coat close enough to brush him if he moves. "Do you want me to put it back up?"

"Nah." The hand moves away. "I was just wondering."

There is a pause. Freed is expecting Laxus to move away, to step back and out of his line of sight so he can breathe again, but there's no motion, no sign that Laxus has any intention of moving.

"You didn't wait."

Freed thinks about this statement for a moment. He turns it over slowly in his head as if consideration will give him traction on the meaning. There's a breath of hesitation, another, and then finally he gives in to confusion, lifts his head so he can see Laxus's expression, and says, "What?"

Laxus is watching him, his mouth fallen into the slight frown he adopts when he's not thinking about his features, his head tipped back so he looks even taller than he is in fact. But his arms aren't crossed, and he doesn't look angry, and then he speaks and his voice is almost _soft_.

"When you asked to dance." He glances away, looks back. "You didn't wait for my answer."

Freed stares at the other man, his vision falling out-of-focus while he replays the scene in his head. He had asked - Laxus had blinked at him - then the blond had turned away, attention caught by a question behind him and -

He _hadn't_ responded, after all.

Freed can feel himself starting to flush, ducks his head as if he can hide his whole face behind his hair instead of just half of it. "Oh. I thought you -"

His voice stalls. _Didn't want to. Didn't want _me_. Didn't want -_

"Yeah."

Freed's head snaps up, his eyes going wide with lack of comprehension, but Laxus is holding a hand out, and staring right at him, and there's no room for even Freed to misunderstand.

"I'm not very good," Laxus says, while Freed is trapped in the first shocked gasp of understanding. "If you want a talented partner -"

"_No_," Freed all but snaps, reaching out to seize Laxus's hand like the blond will take the offer back if he waits too long. "No." He sounds calmer, the second time, even though his hand is starting to shake. "I want you."

It's too much, too direct, and it's not what he _meant_ to say, all he had meant to say was 'I want to dance with you,' but the retraction dies in his throat like the lie it is even as his cheeks go hot again, so dark his blush must be visible even in the low light.

The hand under his desperate hold shifts, Laxus's fingers closing strong around his. When the blond pulls, Freed takes a step in closer without thinking at all, and when the other's hand settles against his waist he has to shut his eyes against the burn of maybe-tears.

"I dunno how to do this," Laxus is saying. Freed's hand is shaking as he reaches up to touch Laxus's shoulder, to rest his fingers on the pristine white of the other man's coat. He can feel Laxus's motion through his fingertips in the moment before the blond starts to move, can feel the heat of the other's skin radiating against him even before he shifts his feet to fall into line with Laxus's. "Am I supposed to lead you?"

Laxus is a little too close, and his movements are only barely in time with the music spilling faint from the other room, and Freed has to stumble a step to keep his pace as they slowly turn. "You're perfect," Freed says.

It's still true.

They're both silent for a moment. Freed's hand relaxes against Laxus's shoulder, and Laxus's fingers come an inch sideways to settle into the small of Freed's back, and Freed is smiling so wide he has to keep his head tipped down to hide the worst of it.

"Do you want to go back in?" Laxus finally says. He misses a step as he speaks, the distraction of the words pulling his rhythm away, but Freed barely notices. The monotone of the blond's words belies their import, contrasts with the way they casually brush away Freed's panic of minutes before like so much smoke hanging in the air.

It takes Freed a minute to find his voice. Even then, he sounds breathless and shaky. "Yes." Laxus pauses, his motion threatening to cease, and Freed blurts, "Not yet." He pulls at Laxus's hand, desperate to keep them turning, and Laxus shifts again, picks back up the dropped pattern of motion while Freed finds his words again. "In a minute." He's blushing again, he's burning under Laxus's steady gaze and he can't make himself look up. "I want to stay out here with you for a minute."

Laxus's fingers tighten on his hand. Freed can feel all his fingers pressing together under the hold; then Laxus is letting some of the tension go, sliding his hand against Freed's to press their palms together.

"Okay." That sounds casual too, disinterested and easy, but his fingers are lacing together with Freed's. When the other man ducks his chin again, there's warmth at the top of his head, a brief tingle of lips pressing against his hair.

At some point they stop moving entirely, but there's no one but them to comment, and Freed doesn't mind.


End file.
